


Things That Can't Be Found

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Costume Kink, F/M, Femdom, Knifeplay, Multi, Nipple Clamps, Nipple Torture, Open Relationships, Paddling, Rope Bondage, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safeword Use, Safewords, Sensory Deprivation, Service Submission, Sex Toys, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 04:10:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6141070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Keene goes to Calamity for what he can't find elsewhere, releases control and sets his mind quiet.</p><p>Note: Background Calamity/Beatrix, but the smut focus is on both of them topping Keene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things That Can't Be Found

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fiach_dubh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiach_dubh/gifts).



He breathes hard and wordless, forearms flat to the floor and knees sore against the woven rug. His thighs and belly streaked with semen, air lingering hot with sweat and groans.

Calamity stubs her cigarette in a tray, comes over with the smoke of it still on her hands, her mouth. Pulls him to his feet, guides him to the bed. Already has a damp towel for him, wipes him down with detached interest.

“How you feeling?” she asks, settling him on the mattress. It creaks beneath his weight, underscores her words.

He shakes his head, shrugs. Always takes a little time to come back. Likes dwelling in the quiet space of it. Soothes the Stealth Boy itch. No words, no worries.

She nods, not expecting any other response yet. Pats his head, scratches a ragged nail behind his ear and walks to the kitchen. Creak of her boots against the floorboards tells him she’s at the stove, a click as she starts the kettle. Some clinking as she gets a mug.

Calamity returns, tucks the blanket around his shoulders. Catches her fingers on the worn fibers, the pilling fabric. Comforting, mundane. Sits beside him and rubs his back, small circles of her palm against his bare skin. Torn and hard-edged skin might bother him, if he were human. Likes the gentle pressure of it though.

He wallows, lingers. She leaves when the kettle starts whistling, returns with a hot mug of steeping chamomile. Not his favorite-- prefers alcohol, something with a bit more burn-- but she’s got rules against drinking while playing, and he respects that. Even if it’d take more than one or two shots to even get him tipsy, with what he’s become.

“Thank you,” he rasps. The tea soothes the rust off his voice, though it’s mostly hot water right now. Needs more steeping. But warm ceramic in his hand’s another kind of comfort as Calamity returns to rubbing circles on his back. “Was good. Liked what you did with the-- with your boots.”

“Always figured you’d make a good footrest,” Calamity says, her normal tartness bit back. Still soft on the edges, when he’s coming out. Traces a finger over his back, the indents on skin that won’t even bruise, will be gone by morning. Like she can shape and mark him as much as he wants, since nothing will take. Like a fresh canvas every time. “My best gal’s sent a letter, said she’ll be visiting.” Presses her fingers into an old bullet wound along his shoulder, like she could peel him open. Crawl inside his skin, his head. Even more than she already does. “You interested?”

“In what?” Tongue still clumsy. Thoughts like wading through molasses.

“She’s the one who’s been sending me toys. Some ideas.” She grins, lamplight reflecting yellow off her teeth. Damn good teeth by Wasteland standards, especially for a ghoul. “You’ve liked some of her ideas. We could both boss you around a bit.”

“What do you get out of it?” Grimaces as soon as the words leave his mouth, washes it with more tea.

She chuckles. “Damn stupid question,” she says, affection laced beneath the tart. “Same thing I always get. And she’s into the rough stuff too.” A reflective pause, eyes gleaming milky. “She’s got a better arm than I do, for one.”

“Want to meet her, first.” Could be fun. Could be the endorphins still pumping through him.

“Sure thing, Keene.”

* * *

Beatrix greets Calamity with a dry kiss on one cheek and a one-armed hug, slinging her weight across the shorter ghoul with a chuckle. Keene keeps his distance; private time for the two, none of his business. They retreat to one of the guest cabins, and when Keene makes his midnight rounds, there’s still light slanting out through the holes in the curtains, the gaps at their door. Creaking laughter and low voices, soft and indistinct as the chirp of distant mantises.

Next morning, Beatrix grins at him across the breakfast table. Sops up gravy with a torn biscuit, ignores Calamity as Calamity stabs a piece of sausage from her plate. Enough other mutants and nightkin around that this is just an introduction, nothing more personal.

“Keene, right?”

He nods. Her gaze is heavier, itchier than Calamity’s. Appraising. Weighing. Hint of oil and leather under the lingering cigarette smoke. Smells like Calamity, except not.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Beatrix.”

Keene’s not much for small talk. Grunts, nods. Nothing else to say. Finishes eating and takes his plate to the kitchen. Has to gently steer Lily back to the dining hall so she’ll stop fussing him away from the dishes.

As he scrubs, he spots Calamity’s foot against Beatrix’s. Small motion under the table, toes brushing Beatrix’s ankle.

* * *

Keene controls everything else in his life. What he can, at least. Sets patrol schedules for the nightkin, rations Stealth Boys. Lays his few possessions in precise array.

He even controls when he gives up control, what nights he goes to Calamity’s door and asks for what he can’t get elsewhere.

(Can’t control the degeneration. Can control Lily’s dosing schedule, coax her into taking her pills. Not the full strength, no, even that’s beyond him. Half-strength, something to slow if not halt the mental deterioration.)

But this time, he waits. Waits until the moon’s high, fat and drunk. Fills the world black and silver, breaks everything down simple. He doesn’t remember if he used to like the night, back when he was human. But he likes the night now.

(Tries not to worry about not remembering.)

Beatrix cracks laughter like a whip, blows smoke in Calamity’s face as they pass a bottle of mescal back and forth, sitting on the porch of her bungalow. She swings her gaze up, catches him watching. Waves him over with a holler.

“Want a smoke?” She smells like ash and leather, lips wet and eyes shining. Wears a ridiculous red sweater with bobbles and something like a drunken gecko dancing on the front.

(Calamity has a similarly ridiculous sweater, a radioactive green that looks like it should glow in the dark.)

He accepts to be polite, not because he wants the cigarette. Sits beside them, lets Calamity set the filter to his lips. Beatrix flips open her lighter, lights it with a flourish. Both women tamping themselves into his space, close without crowding. Lingering no more than they have to, the two of them sitting back on the porch while he leans against the pillar. Rough wood firm against his hip.

“Thought about my gal’s offer?” Beatrix asks, exhaling smoke through what’s left of her nose.

‘My gal,’ Keene notes. Wonders if they call him by name, or ‘my mutant’ when he’s not around.

“What do you want?” Question for question.

Beatrix smiles, lines creaking across the cratered landscape of her face. “Heard you have a pretty good pain tolerance. Could dress you up, dress you down, tie you up and see which gives out first; my arm or your ass.”

“I’m a mutant.”

“And I’m a ghoul. So?” Beatrix chuckles, tugging at one of the bobbles on her sweater. “Skin and pain work the same.”

“Our Keene may have his fetishes, but hates to be someone else’s,” Calamity says, plucking the bottle from Beatrix’s hand. A dainty slosh, pinky up as she takes her sip. “Not asking because you’re a mutant. Asking because we have a good thing and I don’t mind sharing.”

* * *

Moon slants silver around the curtains, Keene standing straight. Some semblance of military posture, hands loose at his side. Not trying to shrink down, not trying to put them at ease.

Not trying to loom either, but he is what he is.

Calamity wears a faded yellow dress, a shade that’s kind to her desiccated skin. Makes her look more flesh than bone. Thick socks and fuzzy slippers, more intent on her creature comforts than any attempt to impress him. Not that he needs to be impressed; he likes her well enough.

Beatrix wears her ragged-edged jeans and thick boots, a leather vest and a silver-coin buckle that outshines everything else in the room. Thumbs looped in her pockets, easy assurance. A death’s-head grin as she tilts her chin. Far enough back she doesn’t have to crane to look him over.

“So. Calamity’s talked a bit, but I want to hear what you like. In your own words.” A smudge of lipstick on her teeth, like she’s been drinking blood.

Keene settles on the familiar, watching the way Calamity taps her fingers against her mug. “I like restraints.” Sets his breathing even, fixes his mind distant. “Pain. Flogging, spanking. Fine with blindfolds. No piss or shit.”

Beatrix nods, smoothes her fingers across her buckle. “Fair enough. I’m not interested in fucking you, getting fucked, putting any kind of handle on your junk. Might tell you to touch yourself, but that’s it. And I hate ‘mistress’ or ‘miz.’ Call me ‘ma’am.” Jumps gears, eyes clicking. Like she can pin him down, spread him out and examine him at her leisure. And maybe she can. “You okay with dress-up, obedience?”

A curt nod, still watching Calamity. Calamity rubs circles on her mug, watching Beatrix with lazy contentment. Funny cycle they make; Beatrix’s heavy-itchy gaze on him, him watching Calamity, Calamity watching Beatrix.

“And what’s your safeword?” she asks, even though Calamity must have told her already. Calamity up-ends her mug, drains the last of her tea.

Keene hasn’t used it yet, not even with Calamity. Still heavy on his lips. “Purple.” Like his skin, like the bruised deepness of the night sky.

Beatrix tilts her head, tucks her chin. Half a nod, the other half somewhere in the crinkle of her eyelids. “Good enough. We could start tonight, or some other time? Ease into it, so to speak.”

“Fine with now.”

Beatrix snorts, kicking her foot so her heel scuffs the worn floorboards. “Didn’t ask you if you were ‘fine’ with it, meant if you  _ wanted _ \--”

“For Keene that’s practically sitting up and begging,” Calamity chuckles, setting her mug down. A clink of ceramic against the wooden table. “Miser with his emotions, doles them out piecemeal.”

“What a goddamn shame.” Beatrix sighs, flopping back in an overstuffed and spilling armchair, cushions so deep she sinks. “Calamity, will you be a dear and get the uniform out? Might as well see if it fits him.”

“Beatrix, will you be a dear and just sit on your ass while I do the work?” Calamity mocks with a deep and heavy sigh, casting woe-begone looks as she (and her fuzzy slippers) scuff off to the bedroom.

Beatrix rolls her eyes, crossing her ankles. “You see the kind of respect she gives me?” Cocks a fading eyebrow at Keene. “Expect a bit more out of you. No speaking until spoken to, understood? Though can’t imagine that’s much effort, for you.”

Keene nods. Hands itching for something to do, palms clammy. Not sure what’s coming, other than it’s going to be good. Eventually.

Calamity returns with two neatly folded squares of fabric, which she unfolds to reveal a plain black dress and white apron. Frilly. More ornamental than practical, a lace cap and white stockings tucked in the pockets of the apron. Lays them out over the table with all the quiet formality of a tea ceremony.

Beatrix runs her tongue over her teeth, rubs the side of her finger up against the lipsticked tooth. Finally blots away the lipstick. “Couldn't find shoes to fit, but figured this gets close enough. Keene, do strip down and put on your uniform.” Civil request, really. No command, just an expectation that she’ll be obeyed.

Though at the end of the day, those might just be the same thing.

Calamity sits on one arm of Beatrix’s seat, arm draped over the back of the chair. Beatrix rests a hand on Calamity’s thigh, which Calamity swats. Beatrix doesn’t move the hand though. Small talk, a conversation about some mutual acquaintance that Keene’s got no clue about. Thinks it’s dismissal, but when he picks up the uniform and starts towards the back room to change, Beatrix shakes her head.

“Out here, Keene. Oh, and take off your underwear too.” Goes back to talking with Calamity, as if he warranted no more than a few moments’ attention. Shoulders loose and mouth easy, not even anticipating a reaction.

Stings, but he can play that game too. Ignores the prickle of resentment, schools his face neutral.  Undoes his scarf, folds it neat and sets it aside. Spares a glance for the two women, but they’re not watching. Very obviously not watching, Calamity leaning down so what’s left of her nose almost touches what’s left of Beatrix’s. Vaguely disappointed-- not that he was hoping they’d gawk, but he remembers when he was worth looking at. Muscle on muscle now, hulking and grotesque. Sharp lines of tendon and overdrawn vascularity.

He rucks his shirt up, strips off his pants and sets them aside. No sense in making a show of it. Takes off his underwear too, some lingering vestige of modesty as he stays turned away. He undoes the buttons on the black dress, steps in and sucks his teeth as he fits his arms through the short sleeves. Shoulders a little too tight, but as long as he doesn’t do any overhead reaches, the seams should hold. The skirt’s short on him, barely covers his ass. Pleats tickle his cock, still dormant. Compact with cold.

Easiest to pretend it’s a loincloth, maybe, except for the shoulders. Fuck. He does up the buttons again with fingers schooled steady, sucking in his gut. Shit. Tighter than he first thought.

“Sorry about the fit,” Beatrix says. Her tone holds as much apology as the sun holds water. “Had a devil of a time finding a dress that might even come close, and didn’t have your measurements.” A rasp against the floor, soft thump as she recrosses her legs. “Mind, if you bust a seam I’ll be very upset. Will have to take it out of your hide.”

“What a terrible thought,” Calamity chuckles, and the skin on the back of his neck prickles. Thinks of her hands on his throat, the way his knees buckle when she metes out her play-punishments. “Better be a good boy, Keene.”

Almost too late, he realizes a response is expected. “Yes ma’am.” Catches Beatrix mock-sighing in disappointment, almost lost beneath the rustle of cloth as he pulls the white apron on. Strings are long enough he can tie it loosely in place, make up for some of the bedraggled appearance of the black dress. He eyes the lace cap, tugging it open and biting down a growl as he realizes the elastic won’t stretch enough.

“Forget the cap then. Shame,” Beatrix sighs. “Just lay it out on top of your scarf.”

“But don’t forget the stockings!” chimes Calamity.

“Yes ma’am.” Responds faster this time because play-punishment is one thing, but like hell he’s going to fuck up on purpose. Calamity’s too good at figuring out that shit. Would make him stand in a corner, facing the wall. Boring, tedious.

He has to sit down, chair creaking beneath his weight as he rolls down one of the white stockings. Wriggles his toes in, the little gossamer wisp of nothing shimmering over his skin. One good thing about the mutation-- no body hair to snag, nothing to ruin the smooth glide of the nylons. Makes him look like a frosted plum, though.

Like continuing an old conversation, Beatrix remarks, “Always liked the look of a man in stockings.” Shifts her hand to Calamity’s other leg, thumb rubbing against the inside of Calamity’s knee.

Calamity squeezes her legs together, trapping Beatrix’s hand. Pinches her wrist, chuckling as Beatrix attempts to extricate herself. “And here I thought you liked the look of anyone in stockings.”

“True. But men count as anyone, don’t they?”

“Not all men.” Calamity laughs, sing-song mockery. “Some men are  _ special _ .” Definitely an old conversation, none of her tartness directed at Keene.

Keene pulls on the other stocking as they bicker back and forth, tuning it down to a comfortable hum. Easier when he’s not the center of attention, seen but not noticed. Still feels the Stealth Boy itch, the old craving a grapefruit-pucker on the back of his tongue.

But the uniform helps, in its strange way. Not humiliation-- Beatrix and Calamity would have already wielded cutting words, lacerated his ego if that was their intent-- but a reminder of the role. Peels him out of his old skin, puts him in something new.

“Good boy. You look nice,” Calamity says, a loose swish of skirts as she slides off the armchair and sits across from Beatrix. “Tea things are in the kitchen, if you’ll bring it out.”

“I also have a leather bag on the counter. I’d like you to set the contents on the table here,” Beatrix cuts in.

“But tea first.” Firm, resolute. Calamity picks up her foot, toes first so the slipper stays firmly on, and gives a dainty stamp of emphasis.

Beatrix holds up her hands, elbows tucked close in mock-defeat. “He can do it while the water boils.”

Keene leaves them to bicker, shivering as a draft passes through the skirt. Ticklish over his ass, and the friction-warmth of his thighs rubbing together is weirdly comforting. Weirdly arousing too, though he busies himself with the stove. Gratification, if any, will be delayed. Takes a couple clicks to get the old electric stove running, fresh kettle of water set on top.

Calamity already took out the good china, white with gold edging and pink florals spiraling towards the rim. Matching teapot, with the lid set as a blossom. Fragile things cast hard, no less dainty for their rigidity. Set on a wooden tea tray, little cups on their saucers glowing against the dark wood.

Beatrix’s leather bag is there too. Scuffed brown leather, a bone charm attached to the zipper. He hefts it in one hand. Feels like several things inside, shifting. Can’t presume to guess, but he’ll find out what they are soon enough.

When he walks back into the sitting room, Calamity and Beatrix eye him expectantly. So he unzips the bag, going slow to avoid ripping the zipper. Pulls out the first object-- a plastic spatula, thin-necked and floppy. Sets it on one edge of the table by Beatrix. No response from either of the ghouls, so he continues. Next is a thick leather strap, broad and stiff. ‘B.R.’ tooled on the handle. Not Calamity’s.

“Why are you stopping, Keene?” Beatrix asks, mild as milk.

His neck itches, thin trickle of sweat behind his ear. Still trying to control his breath, short and shallow so he won’t burst the damn dress. “Admiring, ma’am.”

“Thank you. Rather nice, isn’t it? If you’re good, I’ll use that on you later.” A creak of the springs as she adjusts herself, leaning forward in the armchair. Elbows on her knees. “If you misbehave, I still might use it on you. More likely not, though.”

“Next item, please.” Calamity manages to sound bored, a lazy drawl and heavy sigh as she tilts her head to the side, propping her chin against her knuckles. Eyes half-lidded, like she might be falling asleep. Except for the twitch of her toes, fuzzy slippers vibrating soft against the floor.

The next one Keene pulls out is thin, whippy. A sleek black handle and a cherry-red circle attached to the other end. Smooth, velvety against his thumb. Surprisingly cutesy for Beatrix, so he imagines this one must be Calamity’s. Reminds him of the prewar hard candies. Feels strangely light in his hands as he places it next to the others.

The last item’s heavier than the others, set at the bottom of the bag. A round wooden paddle, edges sanded smooth. Holes evenly spaced throughout the board, and a leather-wrapped grip. No engraved initials here, even though he discreetly runs his fingers to check.

“Just so you know what’s in store for you,” Beatrix says. “Not the depth of my toy-bag, but a nice sampler for starting.”

“Yes ma’am.” Spatula’s too ridiculous to dwell on. The crop is small, a little too cute for him to take seriously-- willing to bet the leather strap and the one with the holes are both Beatrix’s though. Assuming they plan on taking turns, at least.

The uncertainty simmers behind his diaphragm, makes him breathe out harsh and quick. Whistling kettle summons him back to the kitchen, still trying not to strain the seams as he walks. Pours the hot water over the leaves, sets the whole thing nicely on the tray and returns to the ladies. Small, mincing steps. Aware of the slosh of water in the kettle, the faint itch as the stocking starts falling down his right leg.

“Roll that back up, Keene. Looks very unprofessional,” Beatrix tuts, snapping her finger and pointing at the offending garment.

Calamity sighs. “Should have gotten him a garter belt.”

Keene sets the tray down on the low table between them, then bends forward to adjust his stocking.

“Will have to get his measurements before I leave-- oh dear, Keene, do try not to moon me?” Beatrix snaps. Half-growl, a feral thing that skitters up the back of his spine and ices his blood. Shit. He straightens up immediately.

“But your stocking’s still falling,” Calamity says mournfully.

Breathing through his teeth, Keene attempts to bend his knees, sinks himself low without actually bending over. Slowly, torturously trying to maintain his balance, he rolls the stocking back up. A tight strain at the back of his shoulders and he freezes, trying to avoid pulling the material any more than he already has. Thighs tremble as he stands himself back up.

“Good boy.” Calamity leans forward to pat his hand, eyelids crinkling. “If you keep up the good work, I might have a biscuit for you.”

“Is he a maid or a dog?”

“Maid for now, but he’s not above a little sit up and beg on other nights,” Calamity retorts. “No, you’re not excused, stand there while the tea steeps.” Directed at him now, since he had just turned to the kitchen. Was planning on adjusting the damn stockings out of sight, but instead plays post as the ghouls talk, until whatever internal timer Calamity has goes off and she directs, “Should be ready to pour now. My usual sugar, please.”

“None for me. I like mine black and bitter as my heart,” Beatrix sniffs.

“More like molasses. Or licorice. Though good licorice is hard to find these days…”

He pours the tea, only two-thirds to the top since he doesn’t trust himself not to splash. And while he’d enjoy the play-punishment, being too eager to get punished won’t get him what he really wants. Adds half a spoonful of sugar for Calamity, stirs carefully so the little spoon tinkles against the cup. Sets it aside and brings out the cup and saucer for Beatrix first, reasoning she’s the guest, then Calamity.

Beatrix drinks hers with a slurp, chuckling. “Is he always this cautious?”

“I do believe he is still taking your measure. Not much of a talker even at his best, though.” Calamity breathes deep, exhaling with a heavy sigh. Takes her first sip. “Well done, Keene.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

If it weren’t for the fucking dress, he might be able to relax. Not much different from serving Calamity, when she’s in the mood for service. Could take a full breath, relieve some of the tension from his shoulders. Has to focus on his breathing, a rapid-count that keeps the oxygen flowing, keeps him from bursting a seam.

They’re taking so damn long to drink their tea. Laughing, talking. Clink of cup on saucer, an occasional chuckle and then the demand to refill their cups. Trying to be good. Trying to listen. Trying to dip his knees, approximate something to a curtsey as he pours more tea for them. Feels so damn cold on their periphery-- ass bare beneath the skirt, sure, but there’s a warmth between them that he’s never gonna touch. Walled off like glass.

When next he rises, his shoulder twinges and there’s a rip of cloth. Muffled, soft, but too-loud in the quiet coziness of this little domestic scene.

“Keene, have you torn something?” Beatrix asks, setting her cup down. Shit.

“Yes, ma’am.” Almost a relief. Now that it’s actually ripped, he doesn’t need to worry any more. No longer any uneasy tension about the ‘when,’ not ‘if.’

“Oh dear. Take it off and let’s assess the damage,” Beatrix says, a sharp-edged and mocking kindness. Eyes glinting predatory.

Keene reaches behind himself to undo the apron strings, grimaces as the other seam gives. Sucks in his gut, trying not to burst a button as he fumbles at the dress. Shit shit shit. Hands shaking, lungs burning as he finally, finally manages to take a full breath. Gulps air.

Calamity chuckles, rising to her feet. Soft scuff of slippers on the floor, moving behind him. Whiff of the tea’s toasty sweetness. “Keep the stockings on. I think they’re cute.”

Beatrix pulls the dress from his hands-- and shit, he thought he was good at listening, catching subtle bits of movement, but that lady moves scary-quiet when she wants. Snuck right up on him-- and examines the rips with a critical eye. “I expect you to stitch that back up.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Holds his hands out expectantly, drops them as she shakes her head.

“No, some other time. I told you I’d take it out of your hide if you ripped the dress, and I’m a woman of my word. Bend over, grip the back of the couch there.”

Wearing just the stockings feels barer than bare, the boards slick beneath his feet. Highlights how naked he is everywhere else. Struggle to keep his breathing even.

“Calamity, would you like to do the honors?” Voice cool, as carefully formal as their tea ceremony.

Calamity chuckles. Breathes an element of play back into the game. “Thank you very much, Beatrix. And Keene, you remember your word?”

“Purple, ma’am,” he manages, biting his lip in anticipation. Eyes open, fixed on the faded stripes on the couch. Not sure yet whether to sink in, close his eyes, block out everything else but the incoming blow-- or stay open-eyed, staring. Distraction. Both types of concentration have their uses. Closes his eyes, trying to figure out which tool Calamity will start with. A light slick scrape, like plastic-- the spatula, it sounds like. Then her fingertips pressing light on his back, tracing a thumb down his spine before she pats his ass.

“Remember, stay relaxed,” she croons, close enough her breath stirs his skin. A  _ swiff _ sound cuts the air, and the pressure of her fingers lessens as she pulls back. He grits his teeth, waiting for the blow.

It’s… anticlimactic, to say the least.

Light, not even a sting. Floppy, the flat smacking against the lower curve of his buttock. Impact without pain.

“Goddammit Calamity, are we flipping pancakes?” Beatrix sighs.

“Just a warm-up. Start with the hard stuff and it’s corporal punishment, not nearly as fun.” Another slap, harder-- starting to feel a sting now, especially as she picks up the pace. Broad, even-- working across his buttocks, his upper thighs.

Starting to feel the tingle now, blood rising to the surface. Soothing, almost. Warmth traveling down his legs, flexing his toes to feel the nylon stretch.

“Now Keene, step back, yes, away from the couch. Grab your ankles,” Calamity instructs.

Fuck. Hates this kind of balancing shit, but leans forward. Great big breaths through his nose, blood pooling in his head as he feels the skin and muscles pull taut. Even that damn floppy spatula makes more of a sting now, insult salting the wounds as Beatrix orders him to count.

“One. Two.” Still not hitting hard enough to rock him, so no worries there. Eyes closed, cock warm and pressed between the curve of belly and thighs. “Three.” Easier to slip into a rhythm now, reaching ‘ten’ before Calamity tells him to straighten up. Her hand on his elbow, guiding him to the side of the couch. A firm hand at the base of his spine, pushing him forward with his hips over the arm of the sofa. Beatrix takes his ear, pinches the lobe between thumb and forefinger, pulls him down with his chest resting over a cushion. He’s too tall, too big-- legs spilling off, not quite long enough to kneel instead of lean. Fuck, hates feeling like he’s on display.

(Likes it though, cock twitching at the thought.)

“So you can walk him through his paces. Big deal. Where’s this pain tolerance you were telling me about?” Beatrix drawls.

Calamity chuckles, patting his ass like a prize-winning Brahmin. Curls her fingers, runs the edge of her nails across his skin. “If you’ll pass me the strap?”

And the next blow, a harsh whip of the air before the leather lands--  _ that’s _ perfect. Chokes back his cry, stifles it down. Calamity promised Beatrix tolerance, and Calamity deserves to have that promise kept. A heavier thud, warm skin burning beneath the strap. Hard. Skin flaring at the contact. Again. Again.

It’s the silence in these moments that he cherishes, the quiet space between impacts. Where he finds himself suspended, recovering. Nerves singing, breathless and wordless. Times like this is when he thinks, maybe, he might love Calamity.

Calamity’s not beautiful. She’s not kind or soft, but she’s generous. As long as he asks for what she wants to give.

If he weren’t a mutant, he would never have approached her. Doesn’t even want sex with her, really, but likes when she tears him down to skin and bone. That feels the same, at least. Easy to forget he’s eight feet tall when he’s bent over the couch like this. Nylon-clad toes slick against the floor, blissful and calm. Everything else in his head gone quiet, only focusing on the next hit.

Easy to forget he could break her with one hand. Makes it better, knowing he could. Doesn’t want to hurt her, but knowing this is something freely given.

If she weren’t a ghoul, he’s not sure she would ever have said yes. Could find better options. But she’s never complained, never made him feel like a poor substitute for whatever she could have had. Not even in play, not even when she’s talked him down and made him feel about an inch tall.

“Think he’s spacing out. Let me have a turn with that,” Beatrix says, cutting through the hazy fog. 

He yawns, stretches his cheeks. Lips too wet, tongue lolling. Wipes the edge of his mouth. Calamity’s hands still on him, long strokes up his back. Soothing. Gentle. A tap of the leather against his buttock, then a thudding impact that rocks him on his toes, makes his skin scream red, alive, burning, pain. A full-throated howl into the seat cushion.

“See?  _ That’s _ more like it. You’ve been spoiling him, Cal.” Gentle malice coating every word, poison in his veins. Skin crawling even as he risks a forward wriggle, now-hard cock rubbing against the upholstery. Shit. Yes. Beatrix chuckles, taps warning against his ass. “None of that, Keene. Now. Scale of one to ten, how painful?”

Takes him two deep breaths, a harsh swallow before he can answer. “Seven, ma’am.”

“Put some thought into that, did you?” A dry, crackling laugh, like green wood in a fire. “Think he’s telling the truth?”

Calamity chuckles, brushing her hand over the skin. Her hands so cool, the flaking epidermis scratching against his tender cheeks. Not enough to take the pain away even as she soothes. “Keene is remarkably honest. Won’t even tell you what he thinks you want to hear. Not if it’s not true.”

“God, what an asshole. Good thing I’ll tell you all the pretty lies.”

“You sweet-talker, you.” And he can’t see, but there’s a soft and rustling sound, like skin on skin. Calamity’s hand leaves his ass, one last pat with her fingertips. Their footsteps close, those big damn boots and Calamity’s little slippers. “Go on then. Hit him some more. Mark him up for me.”

“Should’ve gotten your signature engraved on a paddle, leave your name on his skin,” Beatrix chuckles. Another of those dry sounds, tiny pop of pressure.  _ Smk, smk _ . Might be a kiss between cracked lips. Like he’s not even there.

Except they do remember he’s there, since Beatrix’s next command is, “Count down now. From seven.”

Fucking cruel, keeping him trapped in each moment. No room to sink into his quiet space, has to call each metered blow. “Seven. Six.” He manages to reach four without tears, then hisses and squeezes his eyes shut. Can’t hold back the wet. “Three. Two.”

“Last one’s yours, Cal.”

A rustle of movement, steps behind him, and Calamity takes the final swing. Not as hard as Beatrix, less thud to it. But his skin’s so fucking tender it hardly matters, and he shakes with relief as Calamity puts the strap down.

“Check in with me, Keene,” Calamity says, smooth and unhurried. “Legs okay? Anything stiff?”

“No,” he manages, tongue thick. No need for a title when they’ve stepped out of play.

Beatrix snorts. “His dick is.”

“Other than that, obviously. Need to take a break?” At his mumbled ‘no,’ Calamity asks, “And remember your safeword?”

“Purple.”

“Good boy.” And he has to fight not to arch into her palm, rub himself up against her like a stray cat desperate for affection as she strokes his back. “Ready?”

“Yes.” A beat, remembering to go back into the scene. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Better be ready. Gonna leave you splotchy and breathless. Not gonna sit for a while,” Beatrix chuckles, and he grips the cushion, knuckles white. Already knows it’s gonna hurt, the way the wind whistles as she swings-- fuck, she switched to the paddle with the holes-- and his throat’s raw. Cut up with screaming, shoulders heaving.

“Keene, if you can take, oh, three more, I’ll have a lollipop for you,” Calamity coaxes, sitting in front of his head. Faded dress swimming in his vision, the exposed tendon of her hands twitching as she pets his forearms. “Three more. I’ll even count for you. Think you can do that?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Pathetically grateful, wants to melt into her lap. Just collapse, let his skin cool down and his nerves go dormant.

She counts down the final three blows, strokes his cheek. Scratches under his chin and pats his head. Scrapes her fingers over the planes of his skull like she’d tousle his hair, if he had any.

“Your lollipop, Cal.” Fuck, Beatrix did that scary-silent walk, and-- shit, shit shit shit. He forgot about that last toy, the little crop with the red pad. The one that looks like a candy. The one that Beatrix triumphantly drops into Calamity’s outstretched hand.

“Sweet finish, Keene. I promise.”

He’s got no other response than to groan, collapsing onto his forearms. Limp, waiting. Tensing will only make it worse. Dick chafed against the couch, gonna sting. Fuck. Gonna need some lotion when he gets back to his room, because fuck if he’s gonna be able to resist jacking off after this.

“Sweet sixteen?” Beatrix says, flicking a finger against the back of Keene’s neck.

“Not so cruel, Bea. I was thinking two, one for each cheek. Try for some symmetry.”

“His ass is a work of fucking art.” A low whistle, admiring. “Nice and bright, good splotching. Can even see some of the paddle-circles.”

“So I figure the crop-welts will make a nice cherry on top. Yes?”

“Mm. Yes.” Said with relish, running her hand down his back. Nails scraping over the bumps of his spine, stops short of his hips. “That lollipop’s a lazy top’s toy, though.”

“Not all of us are blessed with your arms, Bea.”

No more words, no warning except for the way the crop cuts the air, slicing impact as that little pad lands on his ass. More sting, concentrated-- caught him inhaling, turns it to a choked gulp and a wheeze as he spasms, shudders. Second blow on the other cheek, then it’s over and Calamity’s stroking his back, telling him good job, good job and rustling in her pocket for a hard candy on a stick, wrapped in a twist of waxed paper. Bright red, artificial cherry and it’s too sweet, faintly metallic on his tongue but he’s grateful for the sugar as he sucks on it. Sticks it at an angle over his lips, like a jaunty cigarette.

Hard step of leather, Beatrix walking to the kitchen. Running water, and she returns. Passes the towel to Calamity, because he recognizes Calamity’s touch, her cool hands and gentle circles as she rubs his ass and thighs. Her skirt swishing gently against his legs, rustle of fabric.

“This one’s going to bruise, Keene. Got some welts, going to mark you up more than usual. Want some aloe?” Calamity asks. Close enough to kiss him, if she had a mind.

Knows she won’t, though. “No.” Figures the water will be enough. Wants to savor this, the dull heat. Might not be able to sit real well, but fuck. When he stretches, when he walks, when he bends forward-- he’s going to have reminders on his skin.

Calamity nods, leaves the wet cloth on his ass. “Mint or chamomile tea?”

“Mint.” Stronger flavor to wash out some of that cloying sweetness.

She doesn’t ask any more questions, lets him come back to himself. Quiet as she strokes his neck, his shoulders.

Feels weird knowing he’s basically mooning Beatrix every time she walks behind him, but doesn’t care. Fucking comfortable like this. Doesn’t sit up until Beatrix returns with his tea, and Calamity lays down a fresh, dry towel for him to sit on as he sips his tea. Part of their ritual. He has to stay however long he takes to finish.

“If you’re interested, I have nipple clamps and a weakness for gentlemen on their knees,” Beatrix says.

Keene snorts, some of the warmth back in his chest. “Not a gentleman. But interested.”

* * *

Showers are such a luxury in the Wasteland. Despite its location, Jacobstown is fucking blessed.

Cool water despite the chill air, the tepid low-pressure head soothing as it trickles over him. Travels rivulets down his neck, shoulders, gathers in his cupped hands. He dips his face into it, snorts out through his nostrils. Casts off some of the waking-dream fuzziness. Turns, lets the spray trickle down his backside. Water calming the bruised skin, the wallop-marks dark against the blue-purple. A flushed and giddy pride, still warm in his throat. Never got marks like that before. Proved something to Calamity, maybe. Proved something to himself.

Didn’t know he even  _ could _ get marked up anymore, outside of a skirmish.

Rinses, suds swirling down the drain. As if all things could wash away so easy.

Uses two towels to dry himself clean. Another luxury, but necessary given mutant size. Keene’s tall for a mutant even, and one towel always leaves him unpleasantly damp. Sighs slow past his teeth, hisses over his lips as he pats the worn towel over his ass. Gonna be a while before he’s ready for another spanking session.

He steps back into the hallway, walks the small distance back to his room with the towel slung about his hips. Gets dressed, goes down to the floor of the lodge.

The very busy, very full floor. Unusually so, some sort of impromptu arm-wrestling tournament going on. Spots Marcus, his orange pauldron a patch of brightness. Body blotting out his opponent, the much smaller Beatrix. Calamity stands to the side, hands on her hips and a beaming smile on her face.

Beatrix twists her wrist, slams Marcus’ knuckles to the table. Spares enough energy to tip her hat at Keene, death’s-head grin winking in the cool light.

His bruises throb to life.

“And that taps me out,” Marcus booms, a rumbling chuckle that echoes through the floorboards as he stamps to his feet. “You would have gotten on well with Francis.”

Beatrix tilts her head, eyes crackling with memory alight. “From Broken Hills?” At Marcus’ nod, she cackles. “Small world.”

“Live long enough, you run into the same people over and over again,” he says affably. “Hey, Keene. Want to try your luck?”

“Not luck. Strength and technique,” Beatrix corrects, cracking her knuckles. She cocks her grin like a pistol. “Not like he has to sit down and prove his masculinity.”

Fucking Beatrix.

He scowls, catches Calamity’s subtle shake of her head. At Beatrix, not him. Smarts all the more. World narrows to that damn chair, that damn table. That damn ghoul sitting across from him as he kicks himself into the seat, grimaces as he settles over still-healing marks. Goddamn.

He loses in three brief, humiliating bouts. First time Beatrix takes him by surprise, a roll of her wrist that has him bent at an awkward angle as she works her shoulder into it, slamming his hand to the table. Second time Keene thinks he’s ready for it, but then he leans forward and  _ goddamn _ that wakes fresh agony on his upper thighs, livid strips of beaten flesh. And Beatrix wins again. Third time he grunts, holds tense with his forearm, makes the mistake of looking across at Beatrix’s half-lidded eyes. Gaze weighs heavy, itches down his spine and prickles like electricity. He loses his concentration, loses the match.

She releases his hand, blows across her knuckles like a gunslinger. “Not bad.” If she’s gloating, it’s hidden in the slant of her eyes, the impatient tap of her foot. Just another day’s work.

Calamity drifts forward, rests a hand on her shoulder. Beatrix reaches across her chest to squeeze, a soft brush of fingertips before calling for the next challenger.

* * *

“You okay with kneeling for a spell?” Beatrix asks, smoke wreathing her face. Grey ash, old ghosts.

Keene nods. Grudgingly, says, “Last night was good, but no impact tonight.” Brought his own toy, if they’ll let him use it.

“Fine by me. Tonight should be relaxing, at least. Just want to catch up with Calamity, play some checkers. You can hold the pieces.” Smiles, an exposed tendon pulling taut. “Silence tonight, just playing furniture. You okay with being gagged?”

Keene nods, helps Calamity and Beatrix set up. They scootch two of the chairs together, put out a cushion on the floor. Calamity brings out an old checkers board, a mostly-intact set with red and black wood pieces. A few pieces, long-missing, have been replaced with buttons or smooth stones.

“What’s the plan?” he asks. Lets the question hover between Calamity and Beatrix, but it’s Calamity who answers.

“Beatrix has a lovely hand with knots, figure we’d tie your arms back, have you kneel. Attach some nipple clamps, let you sit there for a while.”

He licks his lips. Mouth dry, for all that he’s made this request before. “Brought my plug, if that’s all right.”

“Oh, this I have to see,” Beatrix cuts in. “Yes, that’s definitely all right.”

He strips down, folds his clothes and sets them aside. Again, they pay about as much attention to him as a piece of furniture. Only catches Beatrix’s interest when he pulls out his toy. It’s solid glass, heavy and tapered. Fits easily in the cup of his hand, a pleasant weight. Pours oil over it, rubs his fingers so it coats everything, then leans against the wall as he slides it in. Cold, first-- initial shock makes his balls contract. Should have warned himself up first-- painful stretch, relaxing to something cool and throbbing once it’s in. But pain’s part of the pleasure. Calamity never rushes with him, even if he does with himself. Wipes his hand on the towel after.

Beatrix asked for silence, and silence is what he gives her. Uncanny feeling she could take it just as easily, if she chose. Wrestle him down, wedge his arms in a lock and force submission. Different dynamic there than with Calamity. Calamity it’s a gift every time, while Beatrix grates. Not bad, just different. Like pepper and cinnamon. Both burn, hit different notes.

He watches as Beatrix lays out a long coil of rope. White, glows warm in the yellow lamplight. She starts with tying a simple bow, two circles of rope that she pulls through one another to create two loops. She orders him to lean forward, and he loses track of some of the detail, taking his own guesses from the smooth glide of the rope over his skin and Calamity’s patient instructions.

“Sit down on that stool, yes. Forward slightly, to make it easier. Arms back-- good boy,” she murmurs as Beatrix slips the loops up his arms. He shivers as they pass over his shoulders, knot pressed between his shoulderblades. Pulling now, tightening the loops about the shoulders, and he feels the rope tug, a bit of a tickle as the loose ends whisper across his skin. Another knot, another set of loops passing up his arms. Repeating for a laddered effect.

Nice. Soothing sort of monotony to it, especially when Calamity starts humming. Tuneless and sweet, as much a part of the night as moonlight and snowfall. His plug’s not even a distraction, just a pleasant pressure as Beatrix keeps working down. Easy to tune them out, go quiet inside.

“See? Just a repeated double slipknot. Easy to undo in a hurry, even without scissors,” Beatrix says, tracing a ragged nail across his forearm. Raises shivers on his skin, nipples prickling.

Calamity leans forward. Can feel the weight of her shadow. “Lovely. So much prettier than an arm sock.”

“How about you finish up the last few, down to his wrist?”

“Why thank you.”

They change positions with a rustle of boot-clad heels and soft slippers, more loops and knots until Keene’s trussed down to his wrists. Another shift as Beatrix takes over, lifting the last loop and passing through to secure his wrists. A repeated wrap, loose shackles. He could-- if he were very flexible-- bend his elbows and bring them or his forearms closer together, but the rope ties keep his wrists at a set distance.

Cock throbbing, drifts awake as he twists his wrists, testing the knots. Firm, but not painful. Restriction is it’s own sort of excitement. He clenches, heavy weight of the plug shifting inside him.

“Stand up,” Beatrix orders, and he does so. Half-expects her to lead him into position, like he’s on a leash, but she passes the ropes under his crotch. Sets them on either side of his balls with a dispassionate hand, but otherwise ignores his genitals. Calamity to his left shoulder, Beatrix to his right, calling instructions and Calamity mirroring her every move as they pass the ropes under the shoulder loops, cross over itself and create an overhand knot. Not much rope left now, so they tie the ropes down on themselves, pulling taut like a pair of suspenders. Keeps the loops secure, forces him to hunker forward.

Beatrix grins, broad and wicked. Runs a greying tongue over the edge of her teeth. Strangely pointed, like a lizard’s. Circles him slow. “Very nice. How’s that feel? Anything tight, loose, uncomfortable?”

“Good.” Doesn’t add ‘ma’am.’

Snorting, Beatrix pats his shoulder. He bites his tongue, resisting the urge to shake her off. “Clamps next. You okay with sharp edges? Pinwheels, knives?”

Shit. Mouth dry, like he just sucked down half a box of cake mix. Heart racing though, beating fit to break his ribs. “Never done ‘em before.” Line between terror and excitement’s razor-thin, sometimes. Fear and curiosity, like a flipped coin. “Willing to try.” His breath rattles through his teeth on exhale.

“We’ve got a good time coming, then,” Beatrix chuckles. “Would you like to see the tools we’re gonna use?”

Right on the edge of uncertainty, tips when Calamity smiles. He nods, and Beatrix brings out a stainless steel rod. Rattles it, spins the metal disc on one end so the spikes glitter like cruel diamonds.

“Not planning to bleed you,” Beatrix says, cocking an eyebrow. Read the question before he could even voice it. “Might scratch, but it’s not my first rodeo. And your skin’s thick enough that’s even less of a worry.”

It’s Beatrix’s promise, but it’s Calamity’s nod that soothes him.

He kneels at their direction, knees on the folded towels and bent forward. Calamity stands before him, and even kneeling he’s almost as tall as she is. She breathes on her fingers, caresses him with now-warm touch. A gentle massage, just as intimate--just as remote-- as everything else she does. Because he might never have put his cock in her, never plans to, but she knows his body better than any number of ex-lovers. Pinches and pulls, drags her palm across the plane of his chest. Slides the blade of her hand down his sternum, scrapes her nails across his ribs. Could open him up like a book, read him in entirety.

Calming, if he didn’t see the clamps glittering in Beatrix’s palm.

Two thumbscrew clamps on a light chain, and Calamity pinches his nipple, pulls taut. Hands cool, but fingers still warm in contrast to the frigid metal as she sets the clamp in place. Tightens in increments, snug against the dark areola and he grits his teeth, caught somewhere between groan and moan as she squeezes it to her satisfaction.

So focused on his breathing, on struggling to remain silent, that another glitter takes him by surprise. Beatrix has a small metal pail, the sort that a child might use to collect old coins or trinkets. Palm-sized in Beatrix’s hands, and she snakes it onto the chain before letting Calamity fasten the other clamp in place. The clamps aren’t new-- one of Calamity’s favorite toys, to tug him at her leisure-- but this is. Light, hardly any additional weight, really, but the slightest motion creates an extra tug at his nipples, makes him sweat.

“Blindfold, then gag. Since your mouth will be full, we’re giving you a ball. If you need us to stop or check in, drop it. Should rattle loud enough to get our attention. Not that we’ll be leaving,” Calamity says, a reassuring litany. Again, nothing new-- but what’s new is the prickle of terror as Beatrix spins her pinwheel, the light rattle of imminent torment.

“Understood,” he manages.

She crouches in front of him, so close her skirt brushes his hips. Hands on his shoulders, milky gaze meeting his dark one. “We don’t have to do the gag, Keene.” An escape, a gentle out.

But with the bruises still fresh on his ass and thighs, the memory of pleasant soreness in the shower, he nods. “Want to.” New territories, new limits. More places to push the quiet, expand and relax.

Calamity stays with him, stroking his chest and shoulders. Glides her thumbs along the ropes connecting his waist and shoulders, slips a finger down his navel. Is the last thing he sees as Beatrix settles the blindfold over his eyes. Clean, coarse, the kind of material worn soft with many washings. A wood and dark earth smell to it. Like a graveyard-- not rot, but the sort of peace found in silence.

“Open your mouth,” comes the gentle voice, and he knows Calamity’s hands are the ones taking the gag, a folded strip of cloth. His own scarf, like on previous nights. The familiar worn new. Tastes his own body-smell, the dry sweat and cold sunlight caught in the folds. Those gentle hands with the dry scabs and edges of hard rot caress his scalp, tie the scarf snug in place. And the wooden ball settles into his hands. Smooth, warm in contrast to the cool air. A slight dip on one side, which he presses his thumb into.

Beatrix speaks in smoke and crackle, like a distant lightning. “Drop the ball if you need to stop or check in, okay?”

“Nod to show you understand. Good. Now drop the ball. Just to make sure--” A break, chuckling at the hard thud of the ball hitting the floor, even muffled against the towel under his knees. “Good, good. That’ll work just fine.”

Keene bites down on the gag as his nipples tweak, the pail jingling on the chain as one of them-- Beatrix, he thinks-- tugs. Just when the pressure had dulled. Sensitive beneath the clamps, metal skin-warm and still cruelly tight. Pushes his tongue against the gag, eyes squint shut beneath his blindfold.

“Likes having his tits played with, hm?” Beatrix chuckles, another tug to tell him to kneel lower, heels against his ass. Drops it to let the chain bounce against his chest.

“Mhm.” A gentle pat against his neck as she presses the ball into his hand again, then a soft slipper-scuff as Calamity walks towards the checkers board. “And they make such a nice target with his chest thrust out like that.”

“Nipples on men. Useless.” Hard click of boots on the floor now, Beatrix’s swaggering heel-toe strike. “Unless you’re going to torture ‘em.”

A rustle of skirts, the soft creak of a cushion as Calamity takes her seat. “Now, now. They serve a valuable purpose. They break up the blankness of the male chest.”

“A fair point. Now,” a hard thwump, the chair scooting back as Beatrix takes her seat, “ladies first. Your move.”

A tick of pieces, the wood-on-wood clack as they start playing. As long as he stays still, the nipple clamps remain tolerable-- pressure, uncomfortable but not painful. The ropes are reassuring despite the restraint, a sort of trust. Reminder that even though he’s tied up, he had to cooperate for them to get this far. He twists his wrist, just to feel the soft friction of the rope along his forearm. Not tight enough to chafe, but might have some marks when they untie him.

Quiet space, thoughts turned inward. Comfortable, knees cushioned on the towel. When he squeezes, experimentally, the plug shifts inside him-- a pleasant weight. Present-- the lingering smoke of Beatrix’s cigarette, a hint of that creamy, vaguely floral soap that Calamity uses, the barely-there pressure of the blindfold across his eyes and the pressure of the knot behind his head-- but distanced. Measures time by the breath in his lungs, his pulse against the ropes. Beatrix and Calamity’s low voices, the occasional rustle that could be cloth, could be skin on skin. The irregular tap of the checkers, quick flurries followed by longer pauses.

A hard clack, a gleeful ‘ha!’ and a piece clatters into the pail. The pail sways on the chain, tugging at his nipples and the scarf-gag smothers his yelp.

“Good furniture,” Beatrix chuckles. A hard flick against his sternum, and Keene breathes harsh through his nostrils. Not yet articulate enough for a response, even if he weren’t gagged.

Calamity sighs fondly. Pats his cheek, warmth without lingering. “Just wait until I add the rest of your pieces to his pail.”

“I lost a piece, not the damn game.”

“It starts with just one piece…” Calamity’s chuckle turns to a yelp, then a gale of laughter and some squirming sounds, chair creaking before Beatrix’s boots scuff the floor. A heavy thump back into the seat and the game resumes. More clicks, spaces claimed and pieces jumped.

The wooden pieces aren’t so bad when added. At least individually, each drop making the bucket sway, his nipples taut and hard beneath the clamps. Knows the buttons when they drop because they’re light, inconsequential other than the faint tremor that runs through his chain. Knows the stones by the heavier weight, the strangled cry that dies midway between throat and gag, never enough self-control to stifle it entirely.

He hates the stones. Hurt, prickling tears hidden beneath the blindfold. Salt and humiliation rimming his eyes.

He loves the stones. Hurt, makes his blood scream alive. Breaks him out of the quiet space, everything sharp and jagged.

He hates when the game’s over, the last piece clicked into his bucket and Calamity’s triumphant “told you!” signalling the end of his quiet time.

Time’s warped and fluid when they play. Not sure how long they were really playing, not when every moment has both perfect clarity and misty endorphins. Must not be too long though, since there’s no cramping when Calamity asks, when he checks into his body. Knees okay, thighs okay. Everything good, he wants to tell her. Can’t talk. Can’t say. Mouth still full-- nice sort of full, the gag no longer dry and rough on his tongue. Tastes like his own saliva, warm. Carnal. Thinks maybe, might be good to suck cock like this.

Thoughts stretching, linked like little baubles on elastic thread. Nods, mumbles into the gag.

“I’m going to take the gag out now. Talk to me, Keene. How are you feeling?” she says, gentle-dry fingers undoing the gag. Close enough he smells something sweet, faintly powdery behind her ear.

Takes him a few moments to work his tongue around, to slur his words. “Good. Real good.”

“Gonna take off the clamps,” Beatrix says. “Let’s see how good you feel then.” A quicksilver rattle like whirring spurs, reminding him of the pinwheel still in store-- and fuck, his balls draw up inside his body, but his heart picks up pace to match the instrument. Sight still locked behind the blindfold, more dread with being unable to see what’s coming.

A prickle, release-- jingle of the chain, pieces spilling. Pour out, clatter across the floor. Beatrix cusses and Calamity laughs, and then  _ shit _ the tingling hits, blood rushing back to his abused tits and he doubles over, bound arms awkward behind him as Beatrix starts cackling.

“Fucking delicious. Would you like the honors, Cal?”

“Mm. I prefer the hands-on approach, myself. The pinwheel’s  _ your _ little toy,” Calamity purrs, soft and dangerous. Her palm on his chest, gentle, flat-- fingertips trailing across his pectoral, circles his nipple and a dainty tweak that has him biting his tongue to keep from screaming. Shoulders heaving, rope chafing as he tightens in an effort to keep still. She laughs, rolls her fingers to scrape the backs of her nails over his skin, retracing the path to the other side of his chest.

“Squirmy thing, isn’t he?” Beatrix tuts. Pinches his ear, her skin catching the fabric at his ear. Gunpowder residue still on her skin, under her nails. Maybe part of her by now, ground into her skin like scar tissue. “Think a knife would remind him to hold still?”

“We can only hope.” Calamity rolls her hand again, wrist brushing his chest. Knuckles skimming the skin in backhanded ownership. “Stay very still, Keene,” she murmurs as the icy blade presses his throat.

He shivers, tries not to gulp. Metal point light over his pulse, a creak of leather and Beatrix’s leg skimming his back. Her laughter ghosts over his neck, hot and cold prickles as she squeezes his shoulder.

Calamity stays in front, alternates open caresses with long drags of her nail. Long lines, triangles of sensation closing in on the areola. A breath of hesitation, then flicking the sensitive bud.

He groans, open-mouthed and panting. Belly heaving, heels digging into his ass. Rope’s a reminder to stay still. The fucking knife at his neck’s a bigger reminder, a shiver of wet that must be sweat, condensation. Not blood. Shit. He’d know if it was blood. It’s pressure, but no bleeding. Doesn’t sting near bad enough.

(Trusts Calamity to stop if it were blood.)

“Harder,” Beatrix says, so close her lips brush his ear. Chapped and peeling, some parody of kiss.

Calamity presses her fingers on the areola, turns so her ragged pads scratch the skin. Careful, delicately, like he’s a flower she might be interested in plucking, she pinches. Holds, squeezes. Twists as he moans, all his nerves throbbing, centered on that still-tingling and too-tormented center. Plug not enough distraction, ropes not enough distraction. Cut, frozen in this moment.

Until she releases, rubs her palm gentle over his chest again. Worn lifelines and creases, like she can press the warmth back into him.

“I can give you a break if you need one,” Calamity murmurs, one hand still pressed flat to his chest as the other brushes over the other nipple. “But if I do, it’ll be Beatrix taking over.”

“You act like he has a choice.” Beatrix leans forward, the sweet-bitter leather scent of her scraping over his shoulder. Turns the knife, blade flat across his throat. “I’m getting my turn anyway.”

“He  _ does _ have a choice. Of journey, if not destination. Isn’t that right, Keene?” Cruel pinch, tugging his nipple taut, skin of his chest moving with it.

He groans, something high and wordless. Too soft to be a proper scream.

“Lady asked you a question, Keene. Answer her,” Beatrix growls, flat of the blade scraping up to his chin. Like a razor shave, her hands steady even as his heart accelerates.

“Fuck. Fuck. Yes. Choice. Shit--!” and he doesn’t want to safeword out, not really, not when it’s still his own damn stubborn pride as much as wanting to prove to Beatrix that yes, yes he can tolerate pain and it still feels fucking good but, “Break. Break. Pause.”

“Safeword?” Beatrix asks.

He shakes his head. A single, curt motion. Knife not at his throat any more-- or at least not close enough to feel. “Nah. Not ‘purple.’ Break. Like she said.” Nipples still aching, throbbing, but no more pinch. Just Calamity’s hands, Calamity’s voice murmuring praise. Loose-limbed and floating, like he could melt if he weren’t already kneeling, weren’t already bound.

“Break for ten breaths, then we’re switching,” says Beatrix. Idle, bored even. Rustles her fingers along his collarbone, the ropes looped over his shoulders and down his arms. “Still comfortable? Any numbness, tingling?”

“Just my chest. Not bad numb, just-- tingle. Fuck.” Trying to say it in one breath, despite the pauses. Doesn’t know if it counts against his break. Sounds hoarse, winded by the end. Pathetic shell of himself, scooped out and emptied.

“Just breathe nice and slow, Keene. You’re doing very well. I’m proud of you,” Calamity murmurs. Palm flat over his chest, his heartbeat thrumming through her. “Very nice.”

Beatrix counts down, some small mercy. Just expand, fill. Exhale. Chest a bellows. Powers the rest of him, bound sinew and corded muscle. Too big for his skin, for his bones. But made compact like this, arms bound and still kneeling. Like before an altar, like some travesty of sacrifice. Broken down to body and flesh.

When she counts the final breath of his reprieve, Calamity pats his cheek. Beatrix’s boots and Calamity’s slippers move in precise choreography, and then it’s Calamity’s dress swishing against his back, her hand on his shoulder and her blade against his throat. The lingering soreness of last night’s beating is a bruised and dull thing, counterpoint to the cold metal against his skin.

The spurs kiss dull against his skin, a smooth clink as Beatrix runs the pinwheel down the center of his chest. Stops shy of his navel, and he exhales a sigh of relief as Beatrix lifts the instrument from his belly.

“Could spike my name across you,” she murmurs. Voice heavy, like tar and ash. Creosote after rain. “But would rather take advantage of these tits while they’re still tingling.”

“Such a long name. Would it even fit?” Calamity asks, skimming her nails along his cheek. Tickles, but he dare not move with knife still against his neck.

Beatrix chuckles, placing the pinwheel high on his chest, an inch below the collarbone. Directly over his left nipple. “He has a large chest. Could work.” Runs it down, slow. Deliberate. 

Anticipation feeds the unease, the fear prickling sharp as the knife. Going to bisect his nipple, going to hurt. Going to feel good too, but going to hurt. Counts the individual spokes as they dimple his skin. Fuck.

Moans when it finally pricks the areola, goes down over the tender nipple. Flares bright, makes stars bloom behind his eyelids. Still not as bad as he was fearing. Anticipation worse than reality, and then it’s wheeling over his ribs, the lines of his belly. Nowhere near as bad as he thought.

She alters pressure, adjusts the angle. Runs lines across the contours of his flesh. Like carving him up, weighing him piecemeal. Sectioning him so he shivers. Not mutant, not man. Sensation, alive and wearing skin. He gasps when she sets the spurs over the thin padding of his pectoral, one of the few places where there is more than bare muscle and skin. She twists, tweaks-- bites his scream, lets it rattle down his lungs. Can’t move, mustn’t move, even as his wrists shake. Ropes still firm, binding him. Trussed up, compact.

It’s worse when she slaps him, Calamity’s knee against his back, bracing him as Beatrix smacks her palm against his chest. Then backhanded, knuckles dragging and the impact so much worse for the fact that the first one brought blood to the surface. Straight over his nipples, a flick against the areola and she puts the pinwheel against his throat. Clinks against Calamity’s knife, scrolls down. Slow, agonizing.

Soothing, strangely. Almost. Echo of the first time she set wheel to flesh. Calamity’s hands steady behind him, grounding. Roots him to earth, more than even the padding beneath his knees or the bruised set of his heels against his ass.

The pinwheel goes down his sternum. Soft line above the belly, still hard enough to dimple skin without perforation. Down to the navel.

Lower, past the swell of his lower belly. Past the bones of his hips.

Sweat trickles on his neck, mats in his blindfold. Shit. She can’t--

\--oh shit. She’s still going, metal cold against the base of his half-hard cock and shit, shit, she’s actually gonna--

“Purple,” he mumbles, sound thick and distant even to him. Like his teeth are stuck together from chewing on licorice, taffy. “Purple. Purple.” In case she didn’t hear him the first time.

Pressure lifts immediately, pinwheel clattering to the table. Knife’s gone too, its absence almost as sharp as his presence. Reminder of how exposed, how bare he is. Hasn’t needed to shave since the mutation, hasn’t had a razor at his neck for so long.

“Hey, hey,” Calamity murmurs, breath stirring warm against his ear. Hands gentle, soothing. Brushing his shoulders, his neck, his collarbone. Like she can fold him, tuck him in her pocket for safekeeping. “How are you doing? Want me to take off the blindfold, the ropes?”

“Yeah.” Words slurring, mouth still full. Could choke on his own spit, he’s so disoriented. Good, good. “Just-- shit. Nothing sharp on my cock. Nothing. Ever.”

World’s still a blur when Calamity removes the blindfold, when it swims back into focus in patches of grey on grey. Dim room, yellow lights. Hurts. Bright after the dark, warmth and night and back to the present.

“Alright. Won’t do it again,” Beatrix promises, boots creaking as she bends, kneels by him. Undoes the ropes running down his front with practiced ease, circles him to do the back. Despite all the loops running up his arms, she only needs a familiar twitch to get them all undone, slithering down his skin. Calamity undoes the final knot between his shoulderblades, pulls the rope back. Stays with him as Beatrix coils her rope for storage.

“Knife. The knife. Wouldn’t have cut me, right?” he asks. Somehow that seems very urgent, very important. Knees gone to water, still kneeling and slumped forward. Plug’s gone from comfort to heaviness, the pressure a vague irritation.

“I promise. Couldn’t cut you even if you wanted me to,” Calamity says. And fuck, when she holds it up-- it glitters silver, reflects frost. So damn cold, even though it releases something hot and fluttery inside him. Laughter, loose and liquid. Shit. It was a fucking butter knife.

Beatrix snorts, rubs briskly along his biceps, his forearms. Checking for marks, for striations. For lingering damage. Wants to tell her it’s okay, there’s nothing they can really do that’ll hurt him. Master’s Army used up all that hurt long ago. Except for those spurs going down his cock. Fuck. Still some things he never wants to try. “Feels a lot sharper when you can’t see it, right?” Eyes glitter, sympathetic.

He nods. Can’t figure out any better response. Lets her sling his arm across her shoulders-- though ‘lets’ implies he could fight her, if he had a mind to. Doesn’t even have the mind to. She leads him to the couch, Calamity settles a towel down so his bare ass won’t be rubbing all over the upholstery. Still hurts to sit, soft as the cushion is-- still got the worn roughness of the old towel prickling his bruises and welts. Becomes easier when Calamity sits next to him, tugs his hand. Shifts so he can lay his head in her lap. Skirts smell like faded detergent. Something soft, powdery. Dry and herbal.

“Bea, would you make the tea?” she asks, and her voice presses down through her belly, beats warm against the back of his skull. Lullaby and comfort.

“Sure thing. Any preference?”

Calamity cups his cheek. Fingers tickle the skin beneath his chin. “Peach, Keene?” At his wordless nod, she says, “Peach for both of us. Spoonful of honey.”

Eyes closed, feels as much as hears Beatrix’s booted step enter the kitchen. Sends a little tremor through him, some residual nerves still singing sharp. Calamity pets, soothes. Tells him he’s a good boy.

(That’s a lie, he knows. He’s never been good. Not even when he was human. But it’s a nice lie.)

They have a conversation, though it’s mostly Calamity talking, Keene grunting. Says he’s welcome to come back again. Not for play, for tea and biscuits. Asks if he needs the next night, next couple days off. Keene shrugs, nods. Likes Calamity. Not sure he likes Beatrix. But needs his time. Decompress. Fill up the edges of his skin once more.

Drips back into himself, warm and content. Exhausted, down to his bones. Still wants to take the damn plug out, but that can wait until he gets back to his room. When Beatrix comes back with the cup, it smells like summer, warm and golden. Sits up, takes a sip with Calamity rubbing his back. Sweeter than he normally takes his tea, but it’s good.

He nurses his cup. Could drain the whole thing in one, maybe two swallows. Doesn’t. Little sips make it last longer, an undeserved treat. Lets him linger in their warmth, the way Calamity keeps petting him and even Beatrix keeps her itchy gaze to herself.

When he’s finally ready to go, Calamity helps dress him. Tugs his scarf warm about his neck, reminds him to stay safe. Like anything could hurt him on the bitty walk back to the lodge.

Still, he carries her concern tight against his chest. Wards away the chill.

* * *

He leans against the back porch, bottle of moonshine in his hand. Looks fragile, tiny in his oversized paw. Souvenir bottle, or dainty perfume vial. Hint of apples and cinnamon. Tastes like apple-scented wood varnish but keeps him warm.

Beatrix crunches the snow obnoxiously loud beneath her boots, circling around. Gives him plenty of warning, but he stands his ground. His quiet spot, anyway. Even if she’s a guest.

She pulls a pack of cigarettes, cardboard rustle as she removes one. Offers him another, but he shakes his head. She shrugs-- no skin off her nose, if she had any skin. Or nose, for that matter. Lights it, breathes deep and releases smoke through her teeth.

“Coming to the tea party tonight?” she asks. Idle chatter, gaze on the distant treeline.

Keene shakes his head, grunts. She can interpret it however she wants.

“Shame. Brought some damn good biscuits. Hard to find those crumbly little shortbread types nowadays, but I know a baker.” Voice softens, turns wistful. Sets his teeth on edge. “Miss having chocolate, though.”

“How the hell do you stand it?” he growls. Not the question he meant to ask-- didn’t even mean to ask any questions-- but the moonshine-burn in his belly’s prickling at him. Wants to spew questions even if he figures he’ll choke on the answers.

“Satisfy my sweet tooth with honey, sugar. Tea with milk and honey almost hits the right notes, sometimes.”

“Not the chocolate. Me.” Tilts the bottle, splashes his upper lip. Still not drunk, not really, but knows he’s not sober. “You and Calamity. Me and Calamity. How do you not want to--” Shakes his head, still not sure how he’d finish that sentence. ‘Kill me,’ maybe, from the angry young man he’d been, if someone was messing with his girl.

She chuckles, coarse and gravelly. Grates down his spine. “How old were you when you were turned?” she asks. Worse for how gentle she says it, like he’s a teenager in need of coddling.

“In my twenties.” At her cocked eyebrow, he specifies, “Mid-twenties.” Used to remember exactly how old, but… fuck, he’s losing these pieces of himself. Centuries already, maybe another couple and he’ll be like poor Lily.

“I was… well, ghoulification is a process. Took a couple years for it to go from a nasty-looking rash to this all-over rot,” Beatrix says. Cups her hand around the cigarette, warming her fingertips. “Late thirties. About forty when it was all done. I got a bit more experience under my belt than you.”

He snorts. “I’ve still lived longer than you.”

Beatrix smiles, and her pity stings worse than her gentleness. “Lived, but not aged. Most ghouls are the same way.” She shrugs, tamps her lips over the filter. “Whatever you and Cal do doesn’t bother me.”

He swallows. Apples bright in his nostrils, cinnamon burning his throat. “You and Cal-- do the same kind of things Cal and I do?”

Knows it’s a stupid question as soon as it leaves his mouth, plops to the ground like brahmin shit.

Beatrix chuckles, leans over to punch him in the arm. Taps the edge of his tricep. “None of your fucking business, Keene.”

* * *

Doesn’t go to the tea party that night, but next night, Keene knocks on their door. Asks if he can come in. Sits cross-legged on the floor, the ripped dress across his lap and Calamity threading the needle for him. His stitches are clumsy, an uneven stagger of thread-- Calamity chuckles, plucks the needle from his hand and finishes mending the dress for him.

She tells him to stand up so Beatrix can take his measurements, then kneel again so Beatrix can wrap her tape around his neck. Beatrix touches on his skin without pressing, one dry finger besides his Adam’s apple for extra room. Brisk and impersonal, for all that she’s close enough her denim-clad leg’s warm against his arm. Calamity jots down the measurements with a stubby pencil as Beatrix calls them out.

The nearness is a weird kind of intimacy, soothing. Taking orders even if not naked.

Must show something on his face, since Beatrix laughs and makes him an offer.

Keene spends the rest of the night fucking himself on a dildo, one forearm braced on the bed and the other frantically jacking himself off as Calamity and Bea take bets on who can throw him off stride, who can snap rubber bands so they hit his back, his ass. Thighs quake, bites his wrist to stay quiet when one of the bands snaps directly on one of the lollipop-welts. Rough with himself, slams his ass to meet the silicone-molded balls of the toy.

Comes sticky, frustrated. Sore.

Beatrix drawls and grins nicotine-stained teeth at him as she reminds him to clean up his mess.

“And no wiping it on the blanket, asshole,” she says, almost affectionate beneath her knife-edged chuckle. “Use your mouth.”

He keeps his gaze on the wall as he licks semen from the crevices of his hand, probes between his fingers. Swallows the salt and musk of his own arousal. Neck doesn’t itch like Beatrix is watching. Relief of sorts. Also a reminder that she knows she doesn’t  _ have _ to watch him to know he’ll obey.

* * *

Calamity gives him an extra serving of flapjacks the next morning, pushes it on his plate without asking.

He starts protesting,  _ not hungry _ , but his stomach growls. Betrays the lie.

“Eat up, pumpkin,” Lily rumbles, patting his head like he’s one of her Jimmies. “You’ve been looking awful tired lately. Have you been getting enough sleep?”

Keene sputters, chokes on the chicory-rich coffee.

Beatrix takes the opportunity to steal bacon from his plate. “Might be getting sick. Better be careful of your health.” Lips shining with grease, her cocked eyebrow better than a raised middle finger.

* * *

It’s Beatrix’s last night in town, and he goes outside their door with some sad excuse for a bouquet. Crisp purple blooms, tiny yellow mountain-flowers and a couple of the prettier ferns under it, some attempt at a florist’s arrangement. Roses are too fucking sappy-- if he could even find them-- but wants to give something. A thank you.

But the porch light’s off and the soft swells of Radio New Vegas seeps under the doorway. Recognizes the tread of Beatrix’s boots and a dainty click of heels. Laughter, warm and gentle, unalloyed with hard edges or careful compassion. Strange, aching.

Stands in silence outside their door. Finally leaves the bouquet-- wrapped in red ribbon-- on the mat.

* * *

“Hey, Keene,” Beatrix calls, Calamity beside her. Already packed and ready to go, hat shading her eyes. “Didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.”

Calamity’s wearing one of the little yellow flowers tucked behind her ear, and Beatrix has another tucked through the buttonhole on her vest.

“Also, got a present for you.” Shoves a red package at him, too quick for him to refuse. Soft pull of fiber. A new scarf, wrapped around a small jar. ‘Small’ by mutant standards, but bigger than Beatrix’s doubled fists. “Bruise balm. Some aloe and things to help with healing. In case we ever get together again.” She grins, taps what’s left of her nose. “Or in case you fall on your ass.”

He blinks, stares. Chest aches, like he swallowed something too hot, too fast. Threatens to twist his gut.

“Come on, Keene,” Calamity coaxes, butting her head against Beatrix’s shoulder. “You remember your words, right?”

He chuckles, nods. Dusty sort of bitterness to it, like good chocolate. The kind they can’t find anymore.

“Thank you, ma’am.”


End file.
